


Gifts for Demons

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Gen, Pre-Relationship, Very Pre, shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-29 22:21:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6396193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders is cold. Anders' hands are cold. Anders' clinic is cold.</p><p>Fenris gets unexpected help in his quest to do something about Anders' condition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gifts for Demons

Fenris flinched when Anders gently probed the faint red line down his side, which had been a gaping wound minutes ago.

He frowned. “Still tender? It shouldn’t be.” He was about to check magically again when Fenris shook his head.

“It feels fine. But your fingers are like ice, mage.”

Anders blushed and pulled back. “Oh! Sorry. It gets cold down here. And draughty. All right, probably about as draughty as your house... well, anyway, I know the cold hands aren’t ideal for my profession, but...” he trailed off with a shrug, rubbing his hands together.

Fenris stood from his cot, and Anders’ stomach did its usual little flip when he was on the receiving end of an almost-smile. “I hope you will find a solution, mage. Thank you for your assistance.”

 

* * *

 

Weeks passed, the weather grew even chillier, and the mage had obviously not found a solution for his icicle fingers, or perhaps not even looked for one. Fenris scowled and suppressed a shiver as the man prodded a small bruise on his arm before healing it - unnecessarily. Not that Fenris would complain, not anymore. He studied Anders’ thin fingers and bony wrists. No wonder he was cold; how could he not be when was barely more than skin and bones covered by an array of threadbare clothes.

Still scowling faintly, Fenris made his way back home. He whirled around when someone called his name, relaxing as he spotted Merrill hurrying towards him between the rows of stalls on the Lowtown market.

“Fenris! How are you? Were you away with Hawke?”

Already he could feel the familiar irritation caused by her chipper demeanour setting in, but he stayed calm.

“Yes, I was on an errand with Hawke and made a stop at the mage’s clinic on the way back.”

“Oh, I hope you’re all right now!” She eyed him concernedly as if she were counting his limbs. “Is Anders well?”

Fenris shrugged. “Cold.”

“The clinic must be dreadfully chilly at the moment, of course, how terrible! And I can’t see Justice allowing Anders to buy a pair of mittens; it’s impossible to explain that need to a being that’s never felt hot or cold or... anything at all, really. Poor Anders.”

She shivered and pulled the fuzzy green shawl around her shoulders tighter. Fenris looked at her thoughtfully. If the witch was familiar with anything, it was demons.

“Do you think he...” he paused, considering his phrasing. “If someone were to give Anders, say, a pair of mittens... would the demon permit him to keep it?”

Merrill’s ears perked up, and her eyes sparkled. “Oh Fenris, that’s a wonderful idea! And I do think it’s possible. Spirits are... well... obviously strong in their convictions because they have no other purpose, but that means you can... trick them a little.”

He bit back any questions about whether this was what she was doing with her demons and focussed on the issue at hand. “The gift would have to be something he can use. So... no mittens or scarves or anything that will get in the way.”

Merrill giggled. “And we should try to find something so hideous that no one else would want it, so he can’t give it away.”

Fenris chuckled despite himself and looked curiously at her when she turned towards the alienage.

“Do you have time right now? There is a woman in the alienage who might have the right thing.”

He nodded and followed her while she babbled on. “I bought the shawl from her because it’s so beautifully green and the warmest thing I’ve ever worn; but a lot of the other things she sells are a bit... odd. But probably just as warm!”

When they reached a stall covered in all sorts of woollen clothes, Fenris saw what Merrill meant. Painfully bright colours, clashing colour combinations, and all the wool was of that same strange, fuzzy quality that looked ridiculous on anything other than perhaps a scarf.

He let Merrill’s chatter with the shopkeeper wash over him while he browsed. So far a pair of fade-blue wrist warmers had seemed the most practical and unobtrusive. They would blend in so well that the demon might not even notice them. Almost certain that he would buy them, he suddenly stilled and, forgetting himself for a moment, tugged excitedly on Merrill’s sleeve.

She politely ignored the way he blushed and let go of her as if burned and instead looked at the garment he was pointing out.

“Lethallin, it’s perfect!” she squealed and waved the shopkeeper over.

Soon after, Fenris stood uncertainly with the package under his arm. 

“Will you give it to him personally or leave a card?”

Startled, he looked at Merrill. “Neither.”

“Fenris! You know you will have to convince Justice.”

He sagged. “No, I... I cannot write well enough and wouldn’t know what to put on such a card,” he muttered, not meeting her gaze.

“Oh, don’t worry about that! Come along, I’ve written more than enough in my life.” She led the way to her house and busied herself in the kitchen while Fenris sat at the table, looking at the books strewn all over the place, and wondered what to say. Merrill sat down and pushed a cup of tea across the table, sipped at her own, and then began to write.

“Dear Anders.” She looked expectantly at Fenris, who nodded and looked expectantly back.

She sighed. “Dear Anders... Please accept this as my contribution to your cause.”

“If your hands are cold, you cannot... no... You are a very proficient healer, but you would be even better if your hands were warmer.”

“Wear this for your patients whose lives unjustly lack warmth outside of your touch.”

“We do not... need to put in anything about mages, do we?” Fenris asked reluctantly. “I would rather leave the subject alone entirely.”

Merrill hummed. “Your human body requires a certain core temperature in order to function correctly. You cannot hope to fr-”

Fenris’ eyes narrowed.

“... hope to improve the conditions of those living under the yoke of injustice if your hands are too numb to hold your staff and you are shivering too much to aim properly.”

Fenris nodded hesitantly and watched her finish writing. It all sounded very strange, and he doubted very much that the tone was anything like a normal card; but then again the demon probably had as much experience with gift-giving traditions as Fenris himself.

Merrill suddenly looked up worriedly. “I’m sorry! I accidentally signed for you; did you want to-”

He shook his head and looked at the letter while Merrill rummaged through a box in the corner. When she came back with a bit of blue ribbon, he frowned at her.

“You did not sign for yourself. I can read my name.” He pointed at the last word on the page.

She smiled. “Of course I didn’t. It’s your present.”

“But-”

“Not buts,” she replied resolutely and snatched the letter away from him, tying it to the package with the ribbon. “I’m glad we could do this for Anders, and that we could do it together. Goodnight, Fenris!”

With those words, Merrill more or less shoved him out of the house to prevent further arguments; and Fenris frowned at the closed door before pulling out the bit of charcoal he had nabbed from Merrill’s table.

 

* * *

 

Anders stood and stretched, groaning when his spine popped. The last patient had left ages ago, and he had been working on his manifesto since. He wrapped his arms around himself and buried his icy hands in his armpits while making his way over to the clinic door to douse the lantern for the day, but stopped dead in his tracks when he spotted the parcel by the door.

It was large and soft and wrapped in plain brown paper, and Anders curiously untied the ribbon around the letter. His eyebrows climbed higher with every word he read; and he tried to hide his amusement at the grudgingly impressed approval he could feel from Justice, which skyrocketed when they reached the signatures. Fenris, written in the same round, neat writing as the rest of the letter; AND MERIL, in unpractised letters, but obviously written with great care.

Nearly dying of curiosity by now, he unwrapped the parcel, rearing back slightly when a mass of garish orange fuzz spilled out. He unfolded the thing and clapped his hands in front of his mouth, staring at it. He blinked when his eyes watered suspiciously, possibly not caused by the colour alone.

Almost reverently he slipped the tunic over his head. It was wonderfully cosy and fit perfectly, the sleeves just long enough to cover his wrists, the whole thing neither too baggy nor too tight. It was like a warm, fuzzy, orange hug.

With a grin, he finally pulled the hood up, stroking the pointy ears attached to it. He might not wear this with patients around - although Justice now worried about how not wearing the hood could negatively affect this core body temperature of his - but he certainly would the next time he saw those two elves who argued so much with him and who cared so much about him.


End file.
